what are we fighting for

A raised, clenched fist is a sight for sore eyes But what are we fighting for? We beat our chests, and rage against the system But who are we? africans you say, “What is that?” What does it mean to be an African? Is being an african simply a reflection of a geographical imposition? Is being an african simply a melanin-induced difference in skin hue? Who are we? I mean who are we, the ever so disenfranchised; colonially chastised; Traditionally circumcised, now religiously baptised Who are we? We fill up jail cells; slums and churches; We populate welfare queues; We kill our own in xenophobic outbursts We refuse to forgive the White Man for our own shortcomings But somebody tell me, who are we? It hurts to speak to people about their own hardships, Only to have them looking around, so as to see who you are talking about Maybe if we stopped shuckin’ for a moment, and looked into the mirror Behind the black polish, ourselves would gleam a little clearer Love and a stern hand is the language of the wise, A life without knowledge, is but death in disguise A raised clenched fist is a sight for sore eyes But what are we fighting for?